


The Knights' Tour

by irisbleufic



Series: Delicate, Dangerous, Obsessed [32]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alliances, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arkham Asylum, Canon Autistic Character, Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Relationship, Chess, Chess Metaphors, Crimes & Criminals, Established Relationship, Families of Choice, Ghosts, Gotham City Police Department, Gotham Recs - Gift Exchange Summer 2018, Hallucinations, Idiots in Love, Intrigue, Italian Mafia, M/M, Mentors, Multi, Murder Husbands, Negotiations, Origins, POV Edward Nygma, POV Oswald Cobblepot, POV Outsider, Politics, Public Display of Affection, Rivalry, Scheming, Spying, Surprises, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-03-01 11:14:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13293657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: Fish placed her hands on chessboard, nails splayed.  “I have some news that you won’t like.”“It doesn’t matter whether I like it or not,” Edward parried.  “Oswald’s opinion trumps mine.”“Your past and your personal involvement with the subject matter more,” Fish insisted, tapping one of Edward’s black pawns on the head.  “Back from when you were a bitty forensics tech.”Edward’s expression clouded, but another terse sip of wine dispelled all intimations of doubt.“It has to do with this Doc, doesn’t it,” he said thinly, “and the one ghost I most regret making.”





	1. White Queen, Black Queen

Sofia hid behind a pair of tortoiseshell Prada sunglasses half the size of her face. She sipped her dirty gin martini and made sure that the menu obscured what her shades could not. The drink was unbalanced, too much Bombay Sapphire and not enough olive juice. She ate the green fruit off its toothpick and smiled at the pretty waitress. What use was a public stake-out if you couldn't flirt?

"Ma'am," said the waitress, approaching Sofia's table with ill-concealed apprehension. "How's that cocktail for you?"

Sofia ran her tongue across the backs of her teeth, idly using the pick for its purpose. "Not that bad. Kinda boozy."

The waitress nodded, visibly biting her lip. "Dominic isn't the best bartender. Come back tonight when Serge is on."

"Odd question, but," Sofia began, setting the toothpick down on the edge of her plate, "do you work here all day?"

"No," replied the waitress, perplexed, shaking her head. "I'm here till four. We close before the dinner shift. Why?"

"I can't think of a reason I would want to come back if you weren't here," Sofia said, shrugging.

"Let me get that," the waitress mumbled, whisking away the toothpick, blushing as she fled.

Oldest trick in the book: pretend you’re just another rich, vapid bitch, and nobody will pay you any mind. Her mother had taught her that. It was handy for reconnaissance, amongst other things; she couldn’t think of a finer way to spend an early-spring Sunday afternoon. March was going out like a lamb—but Gotham was still full of lions, tigers, and bears.

After Jim Gordon’s troubled visit to the Falcone Estate in Miami the week before, deciding on her course of action had been a breeze. She’d been restless, too long at her ailing father’s beck and call. Too long mourning a beloved brother who hadn’t been permitted to bear the family name.

Direct flights to Gotham didn’t come cheap, but neither would the endeavor to which Sofia had devoted herself. Securing hasty passage and accommodations had been worth the exorbitant price. She hadn’t majored in Economics and gotten her M.B.A. for nothing. Time to prove that new-world savvy had its place in old-world politics.

This particular hole in the wall was a former Maroni haunt. And Sofia had it on covert authority that its current lord and master only dined there when he wanted privacy or needed to do business—or _both_. She had to give the current generation of criminals credit where credit was due; they'd actually bothered to pay attention to her father's modus operandi. Hospitality was essential to the success of any empire, and the primary object of her surveillance had proved, time and again, that he thoroughly understood this principle.

With her father and Fish Mooney for mentors, how could Penguin not? Class fucking acts.

Today’s lunch outing, for the couple at the table directly across the cramped dining room, seemed solely devoted to pleasure. Sofia’s first to-do item in Gotham, after settling into her residence, had been to sound out where she might find them. You could only rely on American tabloids for so much accuracy, although her trawl of the European periodicals in which they’d recently appeared had been more worth her while.

In the hour and change Sofia had been watching them dine and fawn their way through two bottles of Sicilian white, she’d observed so many photo-ops that she could’ve made a killing selling them to the _Daily Grind_. There was trying to take what you’d read with a grain of salt, and there was seeing real-time proof of the media’s claims with your own eyes.

Sure, she’d seen the _Gazette_ headlines while Penguin and his paramour had occupied city hall. She’d even caught the Hearst interview online, days after the fact, by then gone viral. Still, you never did know what was posturing and what was genuine, even if it was on television and straight from the Penguin’s mouth. She wouldn't have put it past them to fabricate the entire romance, just to keep themselves in Gotham's good graces. But she'd grown increasingly perplexed from the morning she'd caught the mayor's resignation live on television. Nothing about it had felt fake.

Edward Nygma, now: he was quite the question-mark. Dead parents, dead girlfriend, dead law-enforcement career. He'd shown he had a knack for killing things, and Sofia had to laugh at the poetic justice of his beloved boss's stint in public office joining the proverbial body-count.

Watching the waitress return with idle interest, Sofia sipped her martini-dregs.

Oswald Cobblepot really was ass-over-teacup for that cracked former GCPD forensics tech. Sofia returned again and again to the flash of their left ring-fingers, as neat a matched set as you please. The bands looked plain, although there’d been speculation about engravings only blurrily visible in newsprint and digital. One of them, or maybe both, was undoubtedly Cobblepot's umbrella.

She raised her menu another inch, contemplating what to order next. She wouldn’t leave until after they did. A spy job was only as effective as its executor’s diligence, and she prided herself on the thoroughness of her investigations.

“This isn’t as clean as it should be,” Cobblepot was saying to the waitress, who looked unhappy, holding up a dessert fork. “Believe me, I should know,” he went on, with restrained sarcasm. “I used to work here.”

Nygma’s eyes flicked up from the last of whatever he was cutting into neat segments on his plate. “I don’t actually want dessert, even if—”

Cobblepot leaned over and shushed him with a kiss, which was more than enough to send the waitress scurrying. Nygma set his cutlery down with a clatter, leaning eagerly into the contact. They took their time about it, too, as if the few other sets of eyes present didn’t register as a concern.

Nygma made a pleading sound, so Cobblepot pulled him closer.

Sofia couldn’t believe her luck. She finished her martini with a final swallow. They’d be pitifully easy to maneuver around as long as they kept each other this distracted. All the better to make her moves on the new mayor, on Dent, on Gordon—

“You don’t have to eat it,” said Cobblepot, fondly adjusting Nygma’s tie. “You just need to look interested.”

“I see,” Nygma replied, slyly pleased. “I’ll be interested, all right. And I’ll cut in if necessary.”

“Mr. Cobblepot?” said the waitress, breathless, proffering two fresh forks. “The rest of your party’s here for dessert. They look impatient. Should I escort them back now? What can I bring you?”

“We’re ready,” Cobblepot said impatiently. “We’ll have the tiramisu all around...unless it’s gone downhill since last time?”

“No, no,” the waitress reassured him, gathering the laminated placards to her chest. “It’s fine. I’ll have four plates sent out right away.”

Sofia couldn’t help but narrow her eyes. She set down the menu, swirling the ice left in her glass. Suddenly, it struck her how uncannily quiet the establishment had been the entire time. How, aside from the pair of strangers drinking at the adjacent bar, there was no one else present except for the bartender and the harried waitress. She had missed something.

She scanned the dining room, wondering why she hadn’t connected the hefty middle-aged gentleman and the blue-haired Latina at the bar with her targets. They both swiveled warily to watch as the waitress led in none other than the Duke, Santino, and two of their allied retinue.

Sofia resumed her menu, refusing to acknowledge the chill down her spine. She shouldn’t have been permitted inside, much less served, unless she was mistaken about her circumstances. Which, clearly, she had been—lulled into a false sense of security by Penguin’s cozy rendezvous.

“Gentlemen,” Cobblepot said, indicating that his guests should take their seats. “Refreshments will be served shortly. Thank you for taking half an hour out of your busy schedule. Ed and I appreciate it.” 

“Just cut to the chase, boss,” said Santino, irritably, although the tiramisu set before him seemed to lighten his mood. “What’s this all about?”

The Duke said nothing, eyes averted, tearing into his dessert like a man starved.

“I think you know,” said Nygma, unexpectedly, making a show of neatly bisecting his tiramisu. “That attempt on on the auction artifacts, at the docks? Whether you were directly responsible or not, it happened on your turf.”

“Our men woulda stopped them,” Santino insisted, “if they hadn’t been tryin’ to track down that goddamn vigilante.”

“Unfortunately for you,” said Oswald, several messy bites into his dessert, “that vigilante gave _your_ men the slip and gave _my_ crew a headache.”

“Did you lose anything?” asked Duke, gruffly, glaring at Nygma’s calculated poise. “Let’s ask the accountant here. What went missin’?”

“Oh,” Edward laughed, something about his expression rubbing Sofia the wrong way as he primly sampled the _crême fraiche_ topping, “nothing. Every object was safely received. But that’s not the point.”

“Yeah?” said Santino, raising an eyebrow, snidely mimicking Nygma with a delicate lick of his fork. “Then what is?”

If not for the barrier provided by her shades, Sofia might have betrayed her silent shock at what happened next.

She’d done scarcely more than knock back the remainder of her ice. Setting her empty glass on the table, her gaze dropped just in time to witness Santino toppling from his chair with a steak knife lodged in his eye-socket. She didn’t even know which of them had done it. Studying their serenely gleeful expressions, as well as their pristine collars and cuffs, left her no nearer to a conclusion.

The only definitive commentary was Duke’s horror.

“That was cold,” he said, relinquishing his fork and pushing back his chair as Penguin’s bodyguards left the bar and came over to flank their employers. “Real cold, you know that?”

“Then take full control of the territory the two of you formerly split,” suggested Nygma, at Cobblepot’s assenting nod, “and make sure there isn’t a draft creeping in— _or_ out. Do you follow?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, fingers tapping nervously along the back of his chair before pushing it in, nodding to his men. “Permission to be excused?”

“Granted,” sighed Cobblepot, mouth full, with undisguised disappointment. “I promise that if your turn comes, you won’t even see what hit you.”

“Not if you’re goin’ for the eyes these days, no,” Duke chuckled. “I won’t let you down, boss. You did away with the weak link, take it from me.”

As the Duke and his men departed, Nygma tapped Cobblepot on the arm and whispered something in his ear. Even though he’d scraped every last trace of cream off the top of his tiramisu, he hadn’t touched the liqueur-soaked, chocolate-stained layer of lady fingers.

Cobblepot nodded, but in recognition rather than surprise. He made eye contact with Sofia, removed his phone from his jacket, and began to type.

Sofia gave up on pretending not to watch, morbidly fascinated at the proceedings.

Three seconds later, her phone rang loudly in the silence. She picked it up, disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to leave in order to see where Penguin’s bodyguards would haul Santino once they got him out the back door.

“Speak,” she said, instantly regretting her haughty manner at the familiar breath on the end of the line.

“Sofia,” said her father, warningly, foregoing even a proper greeting, “don’t you dare.”

“Yes, Daddy,” said Sofia, and hung up on him before he could begin his litany of _why_.

So direct interference with Penguin and his trophy husband was a no-fly zone. Fine. They’d be concerned with the Iceberg’s grand opening in a little under a week’s time anyway. That meant she could focus on Gordon, Dent, and freshly-elected Mayor Bamford.

Sofia beckoned to the discomfited waitress. Otherwise—quietly, while her father was stewing over the obvious—she’d expedite some secondary plans. Her contact had mentioned something about a disproportionate number of former street urchins in Penguin’s employ.

 _Sentimentality_. She could work with that.


	2. Nobody's Pawn

Propping his cane wearily against the corner of his desk, Oswald sank into the blue velvet wingback and did his best to block out the racket from downstairs. Three hours dashing about hadn’t been kind, not after spending a blustery morning on his feet at Stoker Cemetery.

He reached to adjust the lone Bermuda lily in its milk-glass vase, a souvenir of his mother’s re-interment.

Last-minute spot checks around the club between their return from a leisurely birthday lunch for Edward and unlocking the Iceberg doors at seven had resulted in any number of minor mishaps and tedious miscommunications. The alien purple blooms that had sprouted that morning from Ivy’s potted vines at all four corners of the VIP bar, for example, only looked poisonous.

“They're passionfruit plants, Pengs,” Ivy had explained conspiratorially, fawning over the glossy leaves. “The flowers are your favorite color—and, when they turn into fruit, _bam_. Fresh-picked cocktail garnish on the house!”

Once Edward had commenced the auction, Oswald had taken up welcoming duty where he could supervise Sveta’s bartending. With Gabriel nearby, he’d easily kept tabs on comings and goings. Still, those two hours had rendered him pain-wracked and irritable, never mind his elation at the opening. He loosened his right shoelace, clumsily elevating his troublesome, swollen ankle.

Oswald’s phone buzzed in his waistcoat pocket, so he removed the device and squinted at it.

 _Done and dusted_ , read Edward’s text. _You seem to’ve vanished. Can I join you?_

 _Yes_ , Oswald typed, sighing. _Have Sveta prepare an ice pack, and bring it up._

Edward arrived in under ten minutes, out of breath as he rushed through the door and into the office. It wasn’t Oswald’s alone, not when Edward had a desk of his own on the opposite side of the room that afforded him a spectacular view through the cathedral-style window.

“You look miserable,” he said, bending to kiss Oswald, soft and thorough, before seating himself on the desk next to Oswald’s foot. He removed Oswald’s shoe, hands ungloved now that he was no longer playing the enthusiastic auctioneer, and set the ice pack where the swelling was worst.

“This isn’t how I would’ve ended the day, my love,” Oswald admitted dourly, “but here we are.”

Eyes crinkling as he removed his hat and set it aside, Edward slid his right hand, the one that hadn’t left Oswald’s ankle, up to Oswald’s knee and squeezed it. His eyes flicked to the undone lower buttons of Oswald’s waistcoat even as his fingers ventured so far as Oswald’s thigh.

“You let me help with getting affairs settled in the Van Dahl mausoleum, and you bought me lunch,” Edward said, stroking so delicately that the distraction stole Oswald’s breath. “I really enjoyed getting to talk to Miss Mendel again, handling the permissions and everything.”

“That young lady always was destined for your job,” Oswald agreed, moodily contemplating the trade-off they'd made. “Just not while I was in office. Let us hope that Bamford remains pleased with victory over James and treats her chief of staff with the respect she's due.”

Edward was trying not to let the attention he was lavishing on Oswald’s thigh wax too indecent.

“In other news, we should keep an eye on Bruce,” he said, removing a crisply-folded auction report from his pocket and handing it to Oswald. “He bought a third of our antiquarian weapons, which, as you can imagine, had Barbara fit to burst. Which was worth the price of admission, if you ask me, but his behavior otherwise? He tried to out-frat the entirety of Gotham University.”

Oswald scanned the page, satisfied with their takings, and clasped Edward’s hand against his thigh. He wanted to let Edward tease him, kneel and taste him till he couldn’t _think_ , but a knock at the door suggested Edward wasn’t the only one who needed debriefing.

“That’s troubling,” Oswald replied, shifting Edward’s hand back to his knee. “Door’s open!”

“Dumb as shit, boss,” Caroline said, striding in with Vee at her heels, “comin’ up here without Gabe or Vic or somebody on security detail.” She holstered her gun and glanced at Edward. “ _Really_?”

“Reports don’t make themselves,” Edward said, buffing his nails on his lapel. “What is it?”

“Nothing, except your butts are unguarded,” retorted Vee, stationing herself opposite Caroline.

“Well, thank goodness that’s no longer the case,” Oswald muttered, dragging Edward’s hand back up to where it had been. “We were just discussing the final auction numbers. Ed, what else was there?”

Edward eyed the women, perhaps deciding, after traveling with them, he could discuss anything.

“I think switching from quetiapine to clozapine was wise,” he confessed. “I'm not exhausted.”

Oswald nodded, caressing his hand. “Given it's been a week, I assume we would've seen...”

“Most side-effects will manifest in that window, yes,” Edward agreed, replacing his hat. He turned, maintaining only a precarious hold on Oswald's hand, at the sound of footsteps. "Doctor Kali might not endorse this statement, but I'm probably out of the woods."

“Hey, Pengy!” Ivy called through the door. “Are ya decent? I got the girls here, like you asked.”

Caroline groaned and let them in. Her opinion of the way they were attired—Ivy's glittering green trousers and bare midriff, Selina's strapless violet tube dress, and Bridgit's off-the-shoulder black chiffon bodysuit—was evident in every line of her posture.

“Victor has given the all-clear regarding the roof and perimeter,” Oswald explained, deleting his latest text from Zsasz, which had contained a number of increasingly violent emojis. “What's your assessment of the interior?”

“Just some drunk douchebags,” Selina said, impatiently tapping her clutch against the desk. “Can we go home now? There wasn't even much to pinch. I feel cheated at the lack of quality bling, not gonna lie.”

“Folks keep asking Sveta what those flowers are,” Ivy said. “Maybe I should learn to bartend.”

Edward exchanged glances with Oswald, although both of them knew better than to write off Bridgit when she had that intense, jaw-clenched air about her. He cleared his throat, indicating with a gesture that she should take the floor.

“Bruce Wayne,” Bridgit said, challenging Edward to disagree with her. “He's a problem. First time I've ever wanted to torch somebody on the spot just for being rich and obnoxious. Well, maybe not the first.”

Oswald let go of Edward's hand and steepled his fingers. He desperately wanted to go home.

“Miss Kyle, he's your charge more than anyone else's. I task you with keeping track of him.”

Selina huffed in disdain. “Do you mean just for tonight? Or do you mean like an assignment?”

“I mean for as long as it takes you to find out what's gotten into him,” Oswald clarified wanly.

“Listen, I know that's important and stuff,” Ivy cut in, “but the thing with Fries is kinda...more?”

“We still don't know if he even got the package,” Bridgit reminded Oswald. “It's been _weeks_.”

“Be that as it may,” said Oswald, too testy to suppress his condescension, “Fries is an adult, whereas Bruce is not. I will not have him disrupting my patrons—or my operations, at that. Keep him under your thumb.”

“Jeez, take his money if throwing it around is what he wants,” Selina scoffed. “More for us.”

“The underlying point,” said Edward, quietly, startling them all, “is that my recent...proximity to him in less-than-ideal circumstances...has alerted us to reasons why he might be a wild card. We can't risk ignoring this.”

“Yeesh, Ed,” Ivy said, punching him in the shoulder, “that's ominous. He got to you, huh?”

“I am repeating and reinforcing Oswald's order,” Edward said, readjusting the ice pack, which had gone lopsided with melting. “You'll keep Mr. Wayne in your sights, is that clear? Report anything out of the ordinary.”

“Ugh, _fine_ ,” said Selina, taking one wrist belonging to each friend, dragging them out.

As Oswald was about to announce that they were leaving for the night, which meant that Caroline and Vee would get to leave, too, Fish strode in like she owned the place. Gabriel trotted along at her heels as if he hadn't been able to keep up in order to detain her.

“What's the matter?” Oswald asked, leaning heavily on the plush arm of his chair, chin in hand. “Did Sveta fail your infamous cocktail gambit? Old Fashioned too heavy on the bitters? Your standards always were impossible.”

“That's enough of your sass right there,” Fish said, pointing with her clutch. She glanced at Gabriel, eyes glittering with urgency. “Bad omen on opening night, I'm afraid, but I doubt you've glanced at a television. There's been a security breach at Arkham.”

Oswald sat up in his chair, dragging his foot painfully to the floor. Ice water went everywhere.

Edward looked like his first instinct was to scramble after it with some paper towels, but he stayed where he was, spine ramrod-straight. He looked to Oswald, fleetingly vulnerable, and then steeled himself when he realized Oswald's composure was tenuous.

“By _security breach_ ,” said Oswald, impatiently, “do we mean someone from the outside has broken in, or do we mean...the other way around?”

“We mean that freak Valeska's busted out,” Gabriel clarified, sounding afraid. “Quiet-like, without a trace.”

“That's not his style,” mused Edward, tapping his chest as he frowned. “Not his style at all.”

“Oswald, if you want my honest opinion, and I know you always do,” Fish continued, approaching the edge of his desk, splaying her taloned fingers, “it _was_ somebody from the outside. Somebody who knows how to get in without tripping any alarms, who maybe even still has keys. Somebody who's tired of hiding and has a _damn_ good reason to want the likes of Jerome Valeska on his side.”

“Well, this piled on top of the latest reports from the Narrows isn't encouraging,” Edward said.

“An unverified new boss is never encouraging, and now there might be _two_ ,” Oswald seethed. “I'd be the last one to accuse you of not doing your job, Fish,” he went on, sick with the bitter weight of sarcasm, “but please consider this a polite request to step it up!”

“You're not even going to take a stab at who I think did this?” Fish asked, her eyebrows raised.

Caroline and Vee both had their dominant hands within subtle proximity of their hip holsters.

“That's easy,” Edward replied, his tone leaden enough for both himself and Oswald. “Strange.”

Doubled over so far that his head almost touched the desk, Oswald took Edward's offered hand.

“You and Gabe,” he enunciated, rubbing furiously at the white-hot flare in his ankle, scarcely able to focus, “will form a task-force with whomever else you deem necessary. And you _will_ hunt Strange and Valeska down.”

“Boss can't spare Vic,” said Vee, decisively. “If the pay's right, I'm all over this hot assignment.”

“Me too,” Caroline said vehemently, just in time for Oswald to catch the defiant flash of her eyes through the haze of sitting back up. “I'm _so_ tired of this fuckin' rivals nonsense, you don't even know. I wanna put a bullet—”

“Neither of you will go,” Edward said, curiously devoid of emotion. “Oswald needs you here. Fish, I'm at your disposal.”

“Like _hell_ you are!” Oswald snarled, using Edward's grasp to haul himself to his feet. "Is this another game to you?"

“You're not thinking this through, Oswald,” said Edward, calmly, using his free hand to cradle Oswald's cheek. “I dug farther into Strange's secrets than anyone while I was in Arkham. I can solve this.”

“I hate to remind you,” Fish interjected, sounding pleased, “but you married him for a reason.”

Sagging against Edward's chest, beyond caring who saw him like this, Oswald let out a shuddering breath that wasn't quite a sob. As his thumb twitched against the smooth shimmer of Edward's lapel, Edward's steadied him with one sure hand between his shoulder blades.

“Then take Aragon and Fowler when the trail gets hot,” he conceded. “Start in the Narrows.”


	3. Draw Offer

Once the three of them had escaped to the staff lounge, Ivy was all too grateful to swap out her glittery green stilettos for cotton socks and her blossom-patterned Dr. Martens. Lacing the boots in quick succession, she stood and stomped her feet on the cropped carpet.

“All righty,” she said, adjusting the amphora around her neck, clapping her hands. “Hustle!”

“Sveta's not off for like eight more minutes,” Selina griped, shimmying into her favorite pair of battered black jeans. “All I wanna do is grab some shinies. It's not like this is _urgent_.”

“I think this should be baby's first outing,” Bridgit said. “We promised. Said we'd surprise her, like a sorority thing.”

“Without the creepy hazing,” Ivy said firmly, checking her appearance in the mirror. She could move in this get-up, _hell_ yeah. No sense in completely changing clothes like the others.

“You're gonna leave sequins at the crime scene if you don't ditch that top,” Selina warned.

“It ain't hazing if Sveta gets to take a weapon,” said Bridgit, shouldering her flame-thrower as she strode over to Sveta's locker and knocked on the door. “Did you know she has a crossbow in here? Zsasz was so impressed with her aptitude that he let her keep it.”

Selina tucked the latest firearm she'd acquired from Barbara and Tabitha, a Ladysmith with custom ebony grips, into the back of her jeans. She coiled her whip and slid it into the crook of her elbow, winking at Bridgit. Thanks to the former Sirens, her repertoire had expanded.

“We're all set,” she said, spreading her arms before Ivy, as if seeking approval. “Let's get her.”

“I don't think so,” said Ivy, reaching around to yank the gun out of her waistband. “You'll shoot yourself in the ass. _I'm_ gonna take this.”

“You sure about that?” mocked Bridgit, sweetly. “Momma Fish says your aim's still for shit.”

“Fuck Ms. Mooney!” Ivy shouted just as Sveta came through the door with her bowtie undone.

Yanking the violet accessory free of her starched collar, Sveta shrugged and pushed past them.

“Hell, I don't know about the rest of y'all,” she said, opening her locker, “but I sure would.”

“That was way TMI,” said Selina, strolling over to tap Sveta on the shoulder. “Hey, Bellson.”

Sveta turned sharply, her shirt half unbuttoned. “What's the matter, Kyle? Slim pickings?”

Bridgit approached her from the opposite shoulder, smirking. “Maybe. How bored are you?”

“Not very,” said Sveta, turning so that her back wasn't to Ivy anymore, eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“We figured you might wanna think twice about going home to auntie,” said Ivy, “and join us.”

Sveta broke into the wickedest smile Ivy had seen since Selina first learned how to pick pockets.

“Lemme change my shoes,” she said, kicking out of her slip-on brogues. “What kind of job?”

“It's not a job so much as...reconnaissance,” Ivy said, reaching past Sveta to pick up the crossbow while Sveta swiped a battered pair of Vans from the bottom of the locker. “For Pengy.”

“Whoa, whoa,” said Selina, setting a hand on Ivy's arm. “We were just gonna rob some randos.”

Ivy grinned in delight, waiting until Sveta had laced her shoes and put on her hoodie. She handed the crossbow with its beadwork strap over to its owner, watching Olga's niece sling it into place.

“I have a better idea,” she said, “and it benefits everybody. We're worried about Fries, right?”

“Yeah,” Bridgit admitted, raising her hand. “I'm _way_ worried. I keep trying to convince Ed to help because he's good at stalking people, but his skinny neck's on a tight leash.”

“Yeah, I wouldn't advise knocking on the bosses' office door about now,” said Sveta, wearily.

“Gross!” Selina said, thwapping Sveta's arm with the coiled whip. “Brain out of the gutter!”

Ivy squared her shoulders and snapped her painted fingernails in all three of their faces, disappointed at how difficult it was to keep her crew's attention in Sveta's presence. She _was_ attractive, and she could rock a smolder to rival Bridgit any day.

“Okay, ladies!” Ivy shouted, stomping her feet again. “Shut up, and listen up! Game plan!”

“Where we goin', O great future leader?” Selina sassed, folding her arms across her chest.

“Let's go outside, and then I'll tell ya,” replied Ivy, with fierce glee, swaggering toward the exit.

The location that Ivy had in mind for them to raid was only two miles away, but keeping to alleys and rooftops lent the trek a kind of leisurely pizzazz. If there was anything that Ivy had learned from Oswald, it was definitely that creating an air of excitement ensured high morale in the ranks. She helped Sveta fashion the black bandanna she'd had in her pocket into a mask.

“We're far enough away now,” Selina whined, lashing out sidelong with the whip to shatter an abandoned beer bottle. “Where are we going? This here's cop country. I don't like it.”

“We're going to the precinct,” said Ivy, the last word leaving her on a hiccup as Bridgit caught her arm.

“Are you freaking _nuts_?” Sveta demanded, getting up in Ivy's face while Bridgit held her.

“I mean, the place is probably kinda empty because they've got the whole force covering the Iceberg,” said Selina, making a weigh-the-options gesture. “You said this has to do with Fries. I'm listening.”

“I thought maybe we could yank his file from Captain Bullock's office,” Ivy explained, not even having to pretend she was earnest. “If anyone would have updates on where he is, it's them. He's wanted!”

“Yeah, whatevs, so are we all,” Bridgit sighed, letting go of Ivy. “So what's the plan? Cat gets us in...”

“Wow, you guys _are_ freaking nuts,” Sveta said, unshouldering her crossbow. “Cat gets us in?”

“Cat gets us in, you and me and Bridgit keep our eyes peeled,” Ivy said. “Once we get inside, Cat picks the lock on Bullock's office, and then Bridge and I stand guard while you two find the file.”

“Why can't I stand guard?” Sveta asked, surprisingly petulant for being around thirty. “I have arrows.”

“Because Ives has mind-control perfume,” said Bridgit, “and I have fuckin' _fire_. Case closed.”

“Fair, jeez,” Sveta said. “What happens if we get caught? How many people can your perfume hit?”

“However many can smell it? Duh,” Ivy replied. “Not counting you guys, as long as you've been drinking your immuni _tea_.”

“Done and dusted,” Selina said, brushing her hands together. “Let's hit the ground and get in there.”

Ivy didn't know which part of breaking and entering was the most fun—watching Selina do what she did best, or registering each and every gobsmacked look on Sveta's face as they moved from basement to storage to the silent main floor of the station. Bridgit's bitchface was great, too.

“GCPD, here we are!” whispered Ivy, loudly, arms spread as she led them up the left-hand staircase.

“Shut your trap,” Bridgit muttered, bringing up the rear with her flame-thrower at the ready. “Cat?”

“I'm on it,” Selina said, dashing ahead of Ivy, tugging Sveta along by the elbow. “Let's make this a lock-picking lesson while we're at it,” she said cheerfully. “Has Ed covered that yet?”

“No,” Sveta said, removing her keychain from her pocket so she could shine her mini-flashlight on the proceedings for Selina while she worked. “But he's teaching me how to play chess.”

“Chess, schmess,” said Bridgit, falling into position beside Ivy as they turned their backs. “Useless.”

“It is not,” Ivy shot back, unscrewing her amphora pendant and giving the batch a sniff, just in case.

“You're Riddler's biggest fangirl,” Bridgit said, “so you're obliged to say that. I don't hold it against you.”

“I thought I was Penguin's biggest fangirl,” replied Ivy, dabbing some of the perfume on her wrists.

“No, that's my title,” said Bridgit, grinning sheepishly. “You have to admit he's a pretty classy bitch.”

“It smells like feet in here,” Sveta hissed above the sound of ancient file drawers. “And regrets!”

“Bullock's got a ton of those, let me tell ya,” Selina sighed, rifling through papers. “Drinks to forget,” she added snidely, and Ivy turned her head in time to see her hold up a bottle of whiskey.

“So when did Oswald tell you to do this, exactly?” Sveta asked. “Opening night's a bit...ambitious.”

“Oh, he didn't,” said Ivy, casually, dabbing her jawline. “Sometimes you've gotta take initiative.”

Sveta made a choking sound even as Selina whooped in victory. That was the precise moment in which two sets of footsteps burst in through the secondary entrance's alcove and came at the landing from Ivy's side.

“Found it!” Selina crowed. “Man, this thing's thick. Mr. Freeze has been a naughty, naughty scientist.”

“I hate to break it to ya,” Ivy sighed, staring down Bullock while Bridgit targeted Gordon. “Incoming.”

“Somethin' tells me your crime dads wouldn't like that you're out past curfew without orders,” said Bullock. “Put the file on my desk, give me the damn bottle, and we'll call this a misunderstanding. I'm way too tired to process your butts for havin' a slumber party in my office.”

“They're Goth Dad and Green Dad if you really wanna get into it,” said Bridgit, threatening Gordon with a restrained, ethereal jet of blue flame, “but somethin' tells me you don't.”

“Nice to see you, Bridgit, as always,” Jim Gordon sighed, putting his hands in the air. “Careful, Harv.”

“That's Firefly to you, Jimbo,” Selina called from inside the office, tauntingly sloshing Bullock's booze.

“We did not come back here after a hard beat to babysit,” Bullock seethed, catching sight of Sveta with her crossbow and bandit's mask for the first time. “And who the _hell_ is that?”

Ivy flashed him a winsome smile; his befuddled stare gave her just enough time to step into his space. No trouble, this one, especially not getting him to breathe deep. He was already wheezing with exertion, and blonds and redheads being his type was really a no-brainer.

“Jesus,” said Gordon, making as if to shove Harvey away from her, but that put him well within radius.

“Never tried this stuff on coppers before, gosh,” said Ivy, beaming at Bridgit. “What should we do?”

Selina and Sveta joined them on the landing, Fries's file in tow, passing the open bottle back and forth.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Sveta said to Selina, nudging her in the ribs with a tongue-click.

“Bellson, I don't wanna know,” Selina sputtered, handing the bottle back to her. “Drink up.”

“You really are kinda pretty,” said Harvey, vaguely, drawing Ivy's attention to where his eyes rested.

“Holy Mother of God,” Bridgit muttered, holstering her flame-thrower. “You've gotta do it, Ives.”

Ivy waved her hand at Gordon, and then pointed to Bullock, who was already looking at him.

“You two,” she said suggestively, once she was sure they were locked on each other. “Suck face.”

“Sure,” Bullock agreed, approaching Gordon with one hand extended. “I definitely wanna do that.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” retorted Gordon, but he leaned into Bullock's palm. “It took you this long?”

“I know, right?” said Ivy, with scarcely-contained laughter as Bullock went in for the kill. She tapped her chin, watching the first adorable, awkward peck land off-center. “Also, you might wanna do it for, like, a while. Jim's had an awful time with those exes. Kiss it better.”

“Oh my motherfucking...” Sveta dropped the bottle with a clatter, rushing to Ivy's elbow. “What.”

“Just a coupla lonely doofballs,” said Bridgit, slinging an arm around Sveta's neck. “Look at 'em.”

Ivy watched critically, deciding that the next couple of smooch-attempts weren't so bad. Shy and tentative, even kind of sweet. The real shocker was that Jim seemed _hella_ into it. It was a pity she wouldn't be able to interview them on how much they remembered once it wore off.

“ _Augh_ ,” Selina said, stalking down the right-hand staircase as the show got started. “I'm out.”


	4. Strongpoint

Someone had knocked on the office door around forty minutes ago, but Edward had pointedly ignored it. He'd been perched on the edge of Oswald's desk, dizzy, too tongue-tied to think about anything except how unbelievably well the evening had gone.

Flushed from the inordinate amount of kissing in which they'd indulged, Oswald sprawled in his chair—stripped of his jacket, trousers, shoes, and socks—while Edward worked on his swollen ankle. He winced, the sound indicative of both discomfort and desire.

“You're dragging this out,” Oswald accused, head tipped back, voice pitched high and breathless.

“On the contrary,” Edward argued, pretending he wasn't short of breath himself, “I'm thorough.”

Oswald tightened his grip on the velvet arm-rests, using his bare left foot to tease at Edward's stockinged right ankle. He bit his tongue in concentration, exhaling as Edward whimpered, satisfied to get a tease in edgewise.

“We won't make it home,” he taunted. “I'll text Olga and tell her to stay overnight at the house.”

“Don't like the bed here,” Edward muttered, even as he realized its expediency. “Not used to it.”

“That's why we should stay,” Oswald said, letting his left foot drop back to the floor. “Ed, please.”

“Fine,” Edward replied, giving Oswald's troublesome tendons one last do-over before ending the massage with a knee-to-instep caress. “But if I acclimate, you'll owe me something nice.”

“Everything I've given you is nice,” said Oswald, irritably, finding it difficult to rise on account of slow-burn arousal as much as the pain in his joints. “What more could you possibly want—”

“He who lacks it, seeks it,” Edward chided, pushing off the desk to find his footing. He took hold of Oswald's forearms, hauling him bodily to his feet. “He who has it, mistreats it,” he continued, holding Oswald close.

“You're the last person who should be lecturing others on their _health_ ,” Oswald said, too snappish for Edward's liking, but he clung to Edward anyway. “Is that right?” he asked, nuzzling Edward's lips.

“Yes,” Edward groaned, kissing Oswald deeply. He spun them around and pinned Oswald against the desk, pressing close enough to verify that Oswald's state was identical to his.  He stroked Oswald's hip temptingly.

“I'm relieved you find correct answers attractive,” Oswald sneered, but entirely without malice.

“I know you once asked me never to do this again, _but_ ,” said Edward, staggering as he swung Oswald up in his arms, “needs must. Please tell me the door's unlocked.  I'll fall over if it isn't.”

Through a startled huff, Oswald just tucked his head against Edward's shoulder and nodded.

Quarters on-premises had been Oswald's idea, although Edward had been hesitant to agree with that notion simply because he feared Oswald might take the accommodations as license to work all hours. On completion of the bedroom, he'd tested the mattress once and hated it.

Still, depositing Oswald unceremoniously on the too-plush duvet was bizarrely satisfying.

“Don't move,” Edward muttered, setting his bowler aside on the marble-topped bedside table before removing his glasses in addition to it. “You'll undo all of my good work.  It's one of the only practical applications left for the years I spent studying anatomy.”

“If you're in a snit about the prospect of sleeping here, we can still leave,” Oswald offered, struggling into a sitting position. In nothing but his unbuttoned shirt, loose tie, sleeve garters, and understated pinstripe boxers, he already looked half-wrecked.

Edward unzipped his lately-acquired bespoke ankle boots one after the other, kicking out of them as he crawled onto the bed. He pinned Oswald against the pile of pillows, sighing into the prickly softness of Oswald's hair.

“Don't pretend I'm the only one in a bad mood,” he cautioned, nipping at Oswald's earlobe.

Oswald made a strangled noise and attempted to trap Edward in place with his left leg alone.

“You know how I feel about the stunt you and Fish pulled earlier,” he said with bitter concern.

“I do,” Edward allowed, lifting his head just enough to peer into Oswald's eyes at close range.

“You're doing well, but it doesn't mean you _are_ well,” Oswald insisted. “It's careless.”

Edward unbuckled one armband after the other, dropping them aimlessly on the floor. “Oops.”

“Edward, I am serious,” Oswald hissed, taking Edward's face almost roughly in both hands.

“I know,” Edward replied, sobering instantly in spite of his sudden, desperate spike of arousal.

“Fish can handle herself in a fight, and Gabe can handle what's left over,” Oswald went on, his touch gentling, stroking Edward's cheeks. “You, on the other hand, are adept at giving everyone the slip and getting into trouble.”

“What if I take extra security detail for our first expedition?” Edward asked. “Caroline and Vee—”

“Are going out of town again tomorrow to see Caroline's mother,” said Oswald, in frustration. “So, no, assuming you hightail it to the Narrows with Fish and Gabe while I'm busy with operations here, that won't be possible.”

Yanking Oswald's tie free of his collar did very little to assuage Edward's sense of affront. He dropped that over the side of the bed, too, distracted when Oswald sank precise teeth in his lower lip just to get his attention.

“I'm _going_ , Oswald,” Edward protested, flailing when Oswald flipped him onto his back.

“I don't like your tone of voice right now, Ed,” said Oswald, warningly, unpinning Edward's with brusque precision. “We've had an extremely pleasant day, and you got every gift you asked for.”

“It looks just like the old one that went up in Bridgit's blaze at Miles Cross,” said Edward, mesmerized as Oswald waved the exquisite accessory right in front of his nose. “How did you find the same make?”

“Painstaking reconstruction,” Oswald said, setting aside the slender pearl dotted question-mark.

“You have such perfect memory,” said Edward, closing his eyes, “and powers of persuasion.”

“My love,” Oswald murmured, unfastening Edward's trousers with urgency, “please reconsider.”

Edward lay still while Oswald stripped him of his bottom layers and loosened the painstaking Windsor at his throat. He was wracked equally by desire for Oswald and the ceaseless need to _know_ every last answer. A new riddle meant a new challenge.

“I've heard the same rumors you have,” he said, propped up on one elbow. “It's a woman.”

“A dangerous woman,” Oswald clarified, stroking Edward until he ached, “who's not Sofia.”

“Or Barbara, _or_ Tabitha,” Edward panted, squeezing his eyes shut. “If they count.”

“I've ruled them out,” Oswald went on, no longer sounding moody, to his credit. “Breathe.”

Edward opened his eyes wide, letting his head fall back against the pillows. “Right,” he said.

“We'll continue this discussion in the morning,” said Oswald, decisively, coaxing Edward out of his jacket and shirt. Kneeling between Edward's spread thighs, doubtless in excruciating pain, he ran his hands from Edward's hips up to catch the hem of his sweat-damp undershirt, peeling it up and over Edward's head. “How about that?” he asked, thumbing tantalizingly at Edward's nipples.

Edward nodded, catching the back of Oswald's neck, dragging him forward into a kiss. He felt twitchy, desperate to pick up where they had left off earlier for the sake of a foot massage. They'd both been on-edge for so long that attempting anything elaborate would prove pointless.

“It's only my birthday for—” Edward considered the passage of time “—a few more minutes.”

Oswald glanced sidelong at the clock, hovering over Edward with a duly impressed expression.

“I would offer to ride you,” he whispered, stretching his overtaxed leg experimentally as he lowered himself against Edward, “but we both know that's not happening. I wish that—Ed, I _wish_ I could give you—”

Edward pushed up against the exquisite pressure of Oswald's left thigh wedged between his.

“You said it yourself,” he rasped, holding Oswald by the hips, mesmerized. “You already do.”

Mouth hanging open, Oswald struggled against the restraint, trying to meet him thrust for thrust.

“If you venture into the narrows,” he moaned, falling slack in order to fully appreciate the feel of Edward under him, “then I want you armed with—Ed, _fuck_! With every last weapon and trick in your...”

Mindful of Oswald's bad side, Edward rolled him so that they were back where they'd begun.

“I love you,” he mumbled, licking the words past Oswald's lips with a swipe of his tongue.

Oswald heaved under him, jittery and exhausted. Edward worked them both one-handed until Oswald sobbed and clutched at Edward's wrist, his release slicking Edward's fingers. He kissed Oswald into the pillows, shivering with impatience.

“One minute,” Oswald murmured, tugging Edward's hand away from himself, lazily taking over.

Edward shouted into the pillow, trembling against Oswald, snapping hipbone-to-hipbone taut.

Once they could both breathe normally again, Edward shifted to one side. He cleaned them off with the only thing close to hand, his undershirt, and then squirmed into Oswald's loose-limbed embrace, draping Oswald's right leg over his left so that he could support it.

“Probably undid the good work myself,” he lamented, kneading the tendons behind Oswald's knee.

“You made up for it,” Oswald reassured him, drowsily nuzzling Edward's collarbone. “Plenty.”

Overwhelming, just then, to recall with what fierce tenderness Oswald had first taken him to bed.

“I understand the pain will get worse with time,” Edward said softly. “Please don't ever think—”

“There's no end to the pain I'd endure for this,” Oswald replied resolutely. “For the sake of us.”

“Then I won't go,” said Edward, yielding, all contrariness gone from him. “I'd only add to it.”

Kissing the side of Edward's neck, Oswald held him as if they lay together on the brink of war.

“The trouble, as usual,” he said, his tone desolate with regret, “is that Fish is absolutely right.”


	5. Escape Square

Caroline’s mother lived in the cozy two-story white Victorian that Grandma Fowler had left them. The death of Caroline’s father in a steel-mill accident when she was fourteen had set her next in line to inherit, but she’d been only sixteen when her grandmother died.

Cassandra had taken care of the place, even throughout cancer, surgeries, chemo, and recovery. It made Caroline smile to note Vee’s habitual expression of wonder every time they visited.

“I feel like your spoiled mistress or something when we’re here,” Vee said, handing Caroline’s shoulder bag off to her, slamming the trunk. “Good thing your mom likes me.”

“Of course she does,” said Caroline, starting up the steps. “You got us out of Blackgate alive.”

“That was a joint effort,” Vee replied, following as Caroline fished out her keys. “Is she home?”

“Light’s on upstairs and at the back, so I’m gonna say yes,” Caroline said, firing off a text before slotting her key in the door. _Hey, we’re here early. Coming in the front, okay?_

They left their bags next to the front door and left their boots on the entryway tile. Most of the flooring was contemporary with the rest of the house, boasting well-hidden restoration.

Cassandra was in the kitchen, watching a close-captioned film on television while dinner baked.

 _Hi, Mom,_ Caroline signed, smiling as her mother reached for the remote control. _What’s cooking? Smells like the fish casserole Dad never liked._

 _Whitefish, all kosher,_ Cassandra signed, and then beckoned Caroline into her arms. _Tell Vee,_ she continued once they’d let go. _How was the drive?_

“Dinner’s kosher,” Caroline said as her mother hugged Vee in turn. “She asked about the drive.”

 _Thanks, Cassie,_ Vee signed, painstakingly spelling it out using the alphabet Caroline had taught her. _Drive was nice. No traffic._

“Good thing you like late dinner. I thought we wouldn’t get here till one in the morning,” Caroline said, speaking aloud as she signed.

 _Take your things upstairs_ , Cassandra spelled swiftly, grinning at Vee. _Drink?_

“Whiskey,” Vee said, remembering the sign for _that_ without any difficulty. “Thank you.”

Caroline led them back out into the walnut-paneled foyer, snatching both shoulder bags before Vee could grab them. She started up the steep staircase at a jog, amused at Vee’s protests.

“You’re your mother’s kid all right,” Vee panted, catching up with her near the top. “Fast as fuck even with the health problems. You’re gonna look like her when you’re sixty, too.”

“White hair is dignified,” Caroline said, blowing through the door next to the guest bathroom, happy to find the bedroom already warm. “Jesus, doesn’t the atmosphere know it’s spring?”

Vee checked her watch while Caroline dumped their bags on the floor next to the too-frilly bed.

“It’s no longer April Fool’s Day,” she remarked. “Leave it to Ed’s birthday to bring a cold snap. Disaster Boy’s some kind of minor chaos deity.”

“I’d take weather god over chaos god,” Caroline laughed, flopping on the bed. “He’s the worst.”

“He’s been better than he was,” Vee said, crawling onto the quilt-covered mattress beside her.

“Yeah, but it’s too convenient, isn’t it,” Caroline went on. “Something goes south? Blame Ed.”

“Maybe just…not when he can hear,” Vee suggested, kissing her shoulder. “His dad did that.”

“Better that you’re the one helping Oswald and Kali manage his care,” Caroline said. “I’d be in danger of chewing him out daily.”

“Listen, we had fantasy childhoods in comparison to what Ed’s been through,” Vee said with a shudder. “Doesn’t excuse the times he’s been an asshole, but the shit he’s fighting is unreal. Oswald dug up records on the family. Social services tried to get involved, but failed.”

“So, like, what’s our deal? Turning out rotten when our moms raised us right?” Caroline asked.

Vee smirked down at her, throwing one leg across Caroline’s thighs. “Just bad girls, I guess.”

“Your mom really thinks we’re just part of the ex-mayor’s chauffeur team, huh?” Vee marveled.

“My mom knows better than to ask if there’s more to the gig,” Caroline said. “She’s not stupid.”

Vee nodded, setting her chin back against Caroline’s shoulder. “How ’bout this Narrows crap?”

Caroline seethed, winding Vee’s worn hair tie onto her fingers. “I heard a rumor I don’t like.”

“Different from what boss has heard?” Vee ventured. “Doc’s a woman. Doc’s a doc _tor_.”

“Let me give you a hint,” said Caroline, slowly. “I heard a rumor that Jim Gordon won’t like.”

Vee thought about that for a second, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Shut _up_. No!”

“You fuckin’ wish,” Caroline sighed. “This is why I think Oswald shoulda put his foot down.”

“About his not wanting Ed to go on this expedition at first? Uh, _yeah_ ,” Vee agreed.

“Ex co-workers aren’t people Ed’s great with,” Caroline said. “If it’s…well. Could upset him.”

“I know he must have respected her more than the co-wokers he killed,” Vee replied hesitantly.

“We’re alive, and he’s boss’s husband,” Caroline muttered. “Therefore, he’s one of our bosses.”

“Honor among thieves, remember?” said Vee, poking Caroline’s side. “He’s done us solid.”

Caroline shook her head at the ceiling, closing her eyes. “I know, I know. But I’m afraid—”

“Fragile, I know,” Vee soothed, shaking her hair loose for Caroline. “One missed dose and…”

“At least he’s not hallucinating his parents anymore,” Caroline said. “Heaven help us if _that_ happened on a raid. Fish would lose her shit.”

“She'd lose more than that,” Vee murmured. “She'd kill us all to protect Oswald in a blink.”

“You know how moms are,” said Caroline, with wry sarcasm. “Mine would do the same.”

“No joke,” Vee replied. “Fast with her hands. I bet she knows how to sign somebody to death.”

“Communication method _and_ martial art, hmmm,” Caroline mused, messing absently with Vee's hair, the blue segments of which had faded to seafoam. “Vic would want in.”

“Surely at least one member of that crew knows ASL,” Vee said. “It'd be useful on the job.”

“Lord,” said Caroline, exhaling the word on a belly-laugh. “I could teach them. I've been fluent since I was five. Dad learned when he met Mom, so he could sign by the time I was born.”

Vee pulled the hair tie off Caroline's fingers and swept her hair back up. “Done playing, loser?”

“After you, jerk,” Caroline retorted, attacking Vee's sides with both hands. “Ticklish today?”

Vee concentrated on the question for a moment, squirming, but not twisting away. “Huh, no.”

“Damn your migratory sensitivities,” Caroline griped, giving up the endeavor. “Hungry yet?”

“Uh, yeah,” Vee retorted, unexpectedly returning the favor. “Have been since we left Gotham!”

Caroline shrieked and tried to pull away, but Vee still had her pinned. In moments like this—as well as in moments involving far less clothing—she was glad they could be as loud as they wanted under her mother's roof. Not that Cassandra didn't tease them anyway.

The tickle-war devolved into a lazy, increasingly suggestive make-out session. They might have gotten somewhere if Cassandra hadn't knocked on the kitchen ceiling with her broom right about the time Caroline's hand found its way to Vee's belt buckle.

“Why d'you even bother?” Caroline said, rolling off the bed, rearranging her product-stiff hair in the mirror. “Those jeans are painted on as it is.”

“Image,” said Vee, smirking at their joint reflection. “You could do with a cut. Getting shaggy.”

“I'll give you shaggy,” Caroline retorted, elbowing Vee in the ribs. “Hypocrite. Like your hair sees scissors more than every few months.”

“Cassie will get on you about it,” Vee said smugly. “She'll get on you about grandkids, too.”

“You know she's just being a smart-ass when she does that, right?” Caroline asked.

Vee lowered her eyes, shrugging. “Yeah, but you know where I stand. Espero que algún día...”

Caroline swallowed, grabbed Vee's hand, and tugged her toward the bedroom door. Neither one of them spoke as they descended the darkened stairs, the weight of an old argument heavy between them. Gotham was no place to think about any future except the next sunrise.

 _You went from being early to being late_ , Cassandra scolded. _The casserole is cooling._

“Lo sé,” Caroline said aloud, signing as she spoke, looking at neither of the women she loved.


	6. Forced Move

The bedside phone's shrill paging function was the last thing to which Oswald had expected to wake. He groaned and rolled out from under Edward's sleep-heavy forearm, knocking the receiver off its cradle. He hit several buttons aimlessly before the speaker kicked in.

“Heya, boss,” said Sveta, sounding slightly worse for wear. “Security let Fish in before ten. She said she'd wait. I've been makin' her peach mojitos for half an hour. Can I send her up?”

Edward made unhappy noises and swaddled himself in all the covers, a most un-Riddler-like burrito.

“Only if she brings us breakfast,” Oswald yawned, forcing himself to sit up. He swiped the phone off the nightstand, taking it off speaker. “From that bodega around the corner. I trust her taste.”

Oswald endured a few moments of squabbling in Spanish while he limped to retrieve his pajama bottoms and dressing gown. The disagreement died down as Oswald located his slippers.

“She says you're paying for it,” Sveta sighed. “I gave her a twenty. Ain't no huevos rancheros worth _that_ , my dude. If this was back at home—”

“I'm sorry, but do you just—” Oswald gestured vaguely at the ceiling “—forget who you're talking to?”

“Ed says to take you down a few pegs now and again,” Sveta replied calmly. “Besides, you're soft.”

“Ms. Bellson, whatever chicanery Ed may pull,” Oswald said, “this is not your hipster desert paradise.”

“You can call me Sveta. You call Auntie Olga, right? Here, try it with me, nice and slow. _Sve_ —”

“That's different,” Oswald insisted, hobbling back over to the bed. He reached across the mattress and rubbed Edward's duvet-swaddled shoulder. “She might as well be my mother.”

“I promise not to tell Fish you said that,” said Sveta, busy restocking the bar, judging by the inordinate amount of clinking. “At least they have breakfast burritos in Gotham.”

“They have burritos everywhere,” Oswald replied, resorting to shaking Edward when he didn't stir.

“Ed's not awake yet, is he?” Sveta asked. “Can't hear him whining at you to come back to bed.”

“Tell Fish to bring him something, too,” Oswald replied, giving Edward a forced smile as he rolled over and blinked at Oswald. “It'll be his own fault if it's cold by the time he eats it.”

“I don't want one,” Edward protested blearily. “They don't make them with chile like Sveta does.”

“Tell her she may come up directly once the food's been fetched,” Oswald sighed, killing the call.

“Missed meds by an hour,” Edward said with drowsy hesitation. “I'll take it and sleep some more.”

Seized with quiet dread, Oswald leaned over and kissed him, tugging the duvet back up around his shoulders. Dosed properly, Edward could do his impression of breakfast as long as he liked.

“Stay here,” Oswald said, limping over to the bathroom. He located Edward's pillbox easily and filled one of the empty bar tumblers on the sink with water. Bringing them out was a labor of love.

Several seconds later, Edward mumbled something that sounded like _thank you_ as Oswald pressed the pills to his lips. He lifted his head to take several swallows of water, sinking back against the pillows once he was finished.

“You know that I don't deserve this. Never in a billion years, not in _any_ universe, do I—”

“I would have preferred a riddle,” Oswald sighed, petting Edward's hair. “Go back to sleep, Edward.”

“Okie-doke,” Edward mumbled, nuzzling Oswald's hand as he withdrew it, serenely closing his eyes.

Oswald spent the next ten minutes brushing his teeth and attempting to salvage his hair, but the hum of the elevator told him it was a lost cause. He left his cane propped against the wardrobe and went out to face whatever spice-level of salsa awaited.

Seated at the small dining table before the cathedral window, Fish was already several bites into her burrito. She gestured at the remaining three on the tablecloth, and then indicated the one with a streak of red marker on its foil wrapper.

“Do you have any idea how tricky it is to convey the concept of _no bacon_?” she asked bleakly.

“Clearly, you succeeded,” Oswald said, sliding into the chair across from her. He set Edward's burrito aside and chose one of the others, not caring what he might find inside. “Still hot.”

“Daisy's abuelita doesn't mess around,” said Fish, daintily wiping her mouth on one of Oswald's expensive linen napkins. “I say fast, those ladies make it yesterday.”

“I hope you fed Sveta for her pains,” Oswald said around another mouthful. “She'll bitch later if not.”

“Of course I did. Your Burqueña barkeep has a hangover wide as Crown Point Bridge,” Fish tutted. “If you ask me, those three ragamuffins you keep on payroll are a bad influence.”

“Nonsense,” Oswald said, finishing his burrito in several swallows. “They've helped her settle in. Being half-Russian, half—whatever tribe her mom was—in this city can't be a cake walk.”

“Lucky, lucky to have Momma Bellson's name,” Fish cautioned. “Deadbeat Daddy Agapova leaves a sour taste, even if Auntie Olga's made amends. I didn't come here to talk about your staff.”

“It's a pity,” said Oswald, self-deprecatingly, reaching for another burrito. “Felt just like old times.”

With one eyebrow arched, Fish scrutinized Oswald's state of relative undress before drawing a postcard-sized piece of expensive cream cardstock from her coat. She handed it over.

“Burning midnight oil to keep our birthday boy happy?” she asked. “Seems the bitch has manners.”

As he read Sofia Falcone's slightly-flawed calligraphy, Oswald didn't know whether the sudden flare of heartburn was down to breakfast or Sofia's brazen invitation. He tossed the card on the floor.

“Oswald, hear me out,” Fish said curtly. “You should meet with her tomorrow, regardless the cost.”

“One, I don't want to,” Oswald said with his mouth full, irritated, “and two, that restaurant's a dive.”

“True, it won't be up to your sainted mother's cooking,” replied Fish, “but we can't have nice things.”

Oswald set down his burrito and retrieved the card from the floor, reading it more carefully this time.

“Ms. Falcone doesn't say I can bring a plus-one,” he observed dully, “but this is my city, my rules.”

“Oh, I would advise taking Edward,” said Fish, chuckling at the thought. “If it's a trap, he'll trip it.”

“Gabe, too,” Oswald said, sliding the invitation under Edward's burrito. “Maybe Olga as back-up?”

“Your deadly duo won't be back from Atlantic City till Monday, so that's a thought,” Fish agreed.

“No storming the Narrows until everyone's back from their weekend get-aways,” Oswald warned.

“And over their hangovers,” Fish said, tapping the wine bottle Oswald had left out the night before.

“Ed didn't let me get drunk,” Oswald sighed. “Business, moderation, and then pleasure. Wise words.”

“Those drugs kinda knock him into square mode,” said Fish, smirking. “That cute nerd you first met.”

“That is fine by me as long as he's paying attention to the board,” Oswald replied, taking another bite.

“Speak of the devil,” Fish sighed, pretending to yawn into her hand as Edward pushed the doors open.

“Too hungry,” Edward said, greeting Fish with a nod as he passed her to reach Oswald's side. “That one?”

Oswald nodded, watching Edward methodically pick up the red-marked burrito and Sofia's invitation.

“Neato,” gushed Edward, sliding into Oswald's lap like he might if they were alone. “Do I get to play?”

“Remember the trattoria, my love,” Oswald said, steadying him. “I eagerly await your next move.”


	7. Transposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This installment is both a stand-alone Gordlock gift for [serenwib/falsteloj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsteloj) in the Gotham Recs Exchange and a part of the greater plot advancement in this series. It was slightly daunting to be assigned to write Gordlock for the person who _writes_ my favorite Gordlock, but given I'd started to head in a shipping direction with them in this context, it was easier. I hope you enjoy it, friend!

Harvey had no idea why he was lying on the floor fully dressed, or how long he had been there.

There was welcome, familiar-scented warmth tucked against his side, the perp's arm thrown comfortably across his chest. Harvey's head pounded, and he was afraid to open his eyes.

Jim woke with a dull groan, his arm around Harvey tightening out of reflex. “What the hell...”

“Ivy,” muttered Harvey, grimly, blinking at the ceiling in defeat. “She musta hit us pretty good.”

“If what happened to Alvarez a month or so back is any indication, uh, yeah,” Jim agreed, but made no move to disentangle himself, rubbing his cheek against Harvey's shoulder.

“Listen, I hate to cut your snuggles short, but it's ten thirty,” Harvey sighed, glancing at the clock. “The night guards are gone, and you bet your ass Saturday morning shift's arrived.”

“Then whoever dragged us in here drew the blinds,” Jim said, still rubbing his cheek against Harvey's shoulder, sounding increasingly perplexed. He finally sat up, and then offered Harvey a hand. “Something's wrong with my face. Windburn, maybe. Could you take a look?”

Harvey took Jim's face in both hands—why the gesture came so easily, without hesitation, was a question for another time—and studied his mouth and jaw. The skin irritation looked profound.

And that was when he realized the true nature of Ivy's torture perfume: amnesia not included.

“Buddy, that ain't from the wind,” Harvey sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. “How much d'you—”

Jim kissed him, soft and immediate. Nothing like it seemed they'd gotten up to the night before, granted, but it was—it was _nice_. Just a hint of tongue, nothing to drag to Confession.

“Everything,” Jim said, defeated, pressing their foreheads together. “Please look at me, Harv. Please.”

Chuckling in embarrassment, Harvey opened his eyes, kissed Jim again, and patted Jim's raspy cheeks.

“Here I thought it was just me,” he said gruffly. “Pining away for you like nobody's damn business.”

“If you start in on all the reasons you're old and unattractive,” Jim warned glibly, “I'll kiss you again.”

“Nah, I don't think that about myself,” Harvey said, every nerve alight, leaning in to breathe the residual scent of cologne beneath Jim's collar. “How could I, when somebody as incredible as you has stuck with me all this time, huh?”

“Harv,” Jim said quietly, his voice wavering as Harvey pressed a kiss to his neck. “Harv, we...”

“Gotta get out of here, yeah, I know,” Harvey agreed, breathing deeply before getting to his feet and hauling Jim with him. “I don't know if it's the plant mojo or whatever, but I wanna...”

“Come home with me and we can, uh, talk this out, or whatever else you want,” Jim said soberly.

Better without Ivy's poison, Harvey thought, moments like this where Jim was looking at him with that fierce sincerity plastered on his face. He kissed Jim long and slow this time, searching. He could remember last night like he was seeing it from underwater, but he needed to _know_.

Jim folded against him like he needed no urging, hands fisting roughly in the lapels of Harvey's coat.

“If I told you what I wanna do to you, rookie,” Harvey gasped, pulling back, “you'd fuckin' blush.”

Jim shrugged, grinning up at him like the prospect was just one more of those challenges he loved.

“Why don't we start by seeing how much game you can cram into a shower?” he asked sardonically.

“If you're thinkin' about the Arkham situation,” Harvey groaned, “let MCU work. We did everything we could last night. With that freak Valeska on the loose, I ain't lettin' you out of my sight.”

“Great, then you won't mind how cramped it is,” Jim quipped, suddenly uncertain. “The shower.”

Harvey squeezed Jim's hands at his sides, and then let go so he could wrap both arms around him.

“I'm a jerk, huh,” he muttered into Jim's hair. “A jerk for assuming you'd wanna move so fast.”

“Were you not paying attention to the stuff I said three seconds ago?” Jim said in bewilderment.

Just then, Harvey was struck by a thought that made even the situation's discomfort worthwhile.

“Hey, how bad do you wanna see the look on Ed's face,” he asked, “when he first figures it out?”

“First, we're gonna be as low-key about this as possible,” Jim said. “Second? _Very_ badly.”

Someone knocked on the office door, startling them apart. While Jim straightened his tie and smoothed his clothes, Harvey trudged over and opened it, peering out into the station. The way he figured it, he was always enough of a mess that nobody would notice the difference.

Alvarez, puzzled, held a flowerpot out at arms' length. “Somebody left this for you, boss?”

Even though it was only a geranium or something, Jim still bagged it as evidence before they left.

It wasn't until later that Harvey, naked and damp from the shower with Jim dozing naked and damp beside him, fished his phone from under the pillow to look up what geraniums were for. His mom had once worked in a greenhouse; she'd known about that Language of Flowers stuff.

According to a website that looked like it dated to 1995, geraniums meant _stupidity; folly._

“No way in hell are you a mistake,” he said, tossing his phone aside, and rolled over to cuddle Jim.


	8. Intermezzo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Knowledge of the events in three previous pieces in this universe—[ ** _Learning Our Names_**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11624541), [**_Ghost Stories_**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12347526), and [**_Walk Over My Grave_**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12421119)—are slightly crucial to understanding why the central event of this chapter isn't coming out of nowhere. Then again, I don't imagine the audience reading this is made up of anybody who _hasn't_ read most of what has happened previously. Those of you who have seen Season 4 will know that this is another scene-resetting. You intrepid few, thanks for sticking with me!

Edward did his best to still Oswald’s hands, which clenched and unclenched on Oswald’s cane as the limousine slowed to a stop along the curb. He patted Oswald’s arm when Gabriel got out of the driver’s seat, gave the keys to the valet, and let them out.

“This is _not_ how I would’ve chosen to spend my Sunday afternoon, Ed,” said Oswald, petulantly, letting Olga and the bearded new guy get out ahead of them. “We have better things to do.”

“Yes, but you know Fish is right,” Edward said, turning to offer Oswald his hand once he’d stepped into daylight. “We need to figure out why she’s come to Gotham. What she wants.”

“The shreds of her father’s empire, undoubtedly,” Oswald muttered, “which are _mine_.”

“I suspect it’s the desire for alliance,” Edward said reassuringly, falling in line behind Oswald as Gabriel and the new guy flanked him to lead the way. “A deal similar to the one you gave Barbara and Tabitha. Maybe she wants to become a stakeholder? Their business _is_ booming.”

“Falcone glitterati don’t work the weapons trade,” explained Oswald, “but they do patronize it.”

“Best to shut mouth,” said Olga, under her breath, prodding Edward in the back as they walked.

The restaurant’s interior was dim and dingy for a place of such high reputation. Edward could only see ahead of Oswald, Gabriel, and the other bodyguard by virtue of his height—and, even then, it took a considerable amount of rubbernecking, which earned him several more prods in the back from Olga until she peeled off to station herself next to the hostess’s counter.

Sofia Falcone rose from her seat at the small, round table in the center of the crowded dining room. Her black flower-patterned sundress clashed with the red-and-white checked tablecloth, but the single electric candle on the table made the pale blossoms glow.

“Oswald… _and_ Edward,” she greeted, her smile strained and apologetic as she gestured expansively. “They said this was their best table.”

“Interesting choice,” said Oswald, handing his cane off to Edward, who in turn handed it to Gabriel. “Are you sure this isn’t too intimate for a first meeting?” he went on, indicating that the bearded bodyguard should grab the nearest empty chair and bring it over for Edward. “I hardly understand why you’re still here, especially after that little phone chat with your father.”

Edward pulled Oswald’s chair out for him before taking his newly-added seat, gesturing at Sofia.

“Now, Oswald,” he chastised, knowing that his role in this scenario was part good cop, part airheaded trophy spouse. “She’s a grown woman.”

“Thank you _so_ much, aren’t you sweet,” said Sofia, her sarcasm scarcely veiled as she finally sat down, and then shifted her gaze to Oswald. “Don’t worry. We want people to talk.”

Oswald snorted. “Uh, _do_ we? If the idea was to cast aspersions in the public eye—make it look like, I don’t know, maybe I’m cheating on my husband—then you’ve underestimated us.”

Edward couldn’t help but break into a smug grin, which he hid by taking a long swig of ice water from one of the three glasses the waiter had brought out. It would be hard to stay in character.

“Come now, everyone agrees you wouldn’t know an attractive woman if one landed in your lap—Ms. Galavan’s words, by the way,” Sofia said, and Edward couldn’t help choking at the memory of the first time Tabitha had said it. “I’m _loving_ that this city’s premier arms dealers are girls,” she went on, winking at Edward. “I chose this place because I heard your mother was Hungarian. I thought you might like a taste of home.”

After the waiter brought out three dishes piled high with _paprikás csirke_ and _nokedli_ , Edward took up his utensils. He cut into his chicken, irritated.

“Ms. Kapelput was _half_ Hungarian,” Edward corrected testily, “but let’s not split hairs.”

Oswald set his hand on Edward’s wrist so suddenly that Edward jumped in his seat. He looked to the new bodyguard, who stood motionless at Edward’s right elbow and patiently seemed to be awaiting some kind of command.

The bearded brute, whose name Edward would have to ask later, removed a fork from his blazer and used it to spear the piece of chicken Edward had so neatly severed. He chewed it thoughtfully for a few seconds, swallowed, and then nodded at Oswald.

“You take such good care of each other,” Sofia remarked mildly, beaming at each of them in gracious, attentive turn. “It’s excessive, but endearing. I can assure you, Oswald, that I am not here to poison you _or_ Edward.”

Satisfied that she must be telling the truth, Edward cut another piece of chicken and put it in his mouth. The bite of smoked paprika was welcome, even familiar, what with how patiently Oswald had taught him his mother’s recipes, and—as he swallowed, it _burned_.

“Perhaps,” said Oswald, turning in concern when he realized that Edward was coughing. “Ed?” he questioned, his voice rising swiftly in alarm fit to rival the panic he'd displayed at The Sirens. “ _Ed_ , are you—”

“This place goes heavy on the paprika, doesn’t it?” Edward coughed through spice-induced tears.

Oswald removed his hand from Edward’s shoulder, seemingly relieved. Shooting Sofia a look of wary distaste, he cut a sliver off one of his own pieces of chicken and sampled it. He looked as if he'd rather jump off a dock.

“How is the food otherwise?” Sofia asked, her eagerness to please so chipper that it rang false.

“Serviceable,” Oswald said, handing Edward his water before wiping his mouth on the nearest napkin. “Well, we’re stuffed. Thank you so much for meeting me, Ms. Falcone. And thank you to your family for their ongoing support.”

Sofia reached across the table, brushing Oswald’s hand. “You can’t leave without trying the goulash.”

Through a renewed fit of coughing, Edward retorted, “If it’s anything like the chicken paprika…”

“We’ll pass,” said Oswald, emphatically, making sure Edward took another deep drink of water.

“It’s the house specialty,” Sofia forged on serenely, perhaps appealing to Oswald’s better graces.

Impatiently, Oswald showed his approval with a wave, and the waiter took away their plates.

“Not to spoil your fun,” he said, “but that’s the case in _most_ restaurants of this persuasion.”

In control of his respiration at long last, Edward watched the waiter bring out three new dishes to set in front of them. He scarcely paid attention to the taste-tester’s conclusion, what with how unaccountably _distracting_ the smell was. It reminded him of all the times Oswald had painstakingly coached him, and even Olga, through adding the ingredients to—

“How does she get her hands on this, the painted _slut_?” hissed a familiar voice to his left.

Edward glanced fearfully to the negligible space between his chair and Oswald’s, suspicions confirmed. He _could_ see Gertrud, standing there with her arms angrily folded, and he hadn't even missed a dose of his medication.

“Oh dear,” he said, watching as Oswald brought a forkful to his lips. “Oswald, _don’t_ —”

“Is not poison,” scoffed Gertrud, her tone heavy with grudging sarcasm. “Might as well eat.”

Edward turned to look at her. “What are you doing here? I fixed it. You’re with him now.”

“My mother made goulash,” said Oswald, hesitating on the brink of taking the bite. “Brought the recipe from Budapest, handed down through her family for three hundred years.”

Gertrud winked at Edward. “Oh yes, you did fix. So _busy_ we are with the catching up—”

“I, uh, that’s okay,” said Edward, fully prepared to cover his ears. “Don’t need to hear about it.”

Unfortunately, Oswald and Sofia were both looking at him in abrupt, undisguised astonishment.

Edward laughed nervously, glancing from Gertrud to his companions. “I wasn’t talking to either of you. It’s—” he gestured vaguely to his temples, a kind of warning shorthand between himself and Oswald “—loud in here, auditory processing issues, and I get… _um_ , migraines.

Gertrud shifted to stand behind Edward, setting both hands protectively on his shoulders. Just like the day in Stoker that this apparition—no, _hallucination_ —had touched him, they felt hot.

“So inconsiderate, to choose a place this noisy,” she crooned. “Tasteless Sicilian _whore_!”

Beneath the table, Oswald took Edward’s hand, squeezing it as if to reassure him they’d leave.

“Anyway, I doubt this will hold a candle,” he said, and shoved the fork’s contents in his mouth.

From that split-second forward, Edward ignored Gertrud in favor of watching Sofia. Even though her eyes were demurely lowered, she was watching Oswald through her lashes.

Oswald chewed, swallowed, and paused for what felt like a compressed eternity. His gaze, fixed middle-distance on the electric candle, flicked up to meet Sofia’s with murderous ire.

Gertrud let go of Edward and shuffled over to her son, tapping him on the shoulder as she leaned. The fork fell out of Oswald’s right hand, and his left tightened dangerously around Edward’s.

“Cannot hold a candle?” she said haughtily. “Is you who cannot even hold a fork. For shame!”

Edward had to cover his mouth to disguise his sudden, irreverent laughter. He converted it into a fresh coughing fit while Oswald rose and tugged Edward along with him. This gambit, despite an unexpected intrusion, had yielded invaluable data.

“Your brazen scheming wounds me,” Oswald spat. “We are leaving. We are leaving _now_.”

“You must find out how she has learned this!” Gertrud begged Edward. “My recipe is secret!”

While Oswald dragged Edward along with him, Gabriel and the nameless bodyguard scrambled to keep up. 

Edward looked back over his shoulder in time to see Sofia rise from her seat.

“I’m going to find out how you did it, Ms. Falcone,” he said loudly. “You can hold me to that.”

Sofia simply smirked at him as they exited, folding her unfairly toned arms across her chest.

“It _was_ written down,” Oswald said shakily, “in one place. For when she lost her memory, she always said, because that’s what happened to so many of the older people in her family. I used to pray it wouldn't...”

“You never got all of her possessions back,” Edward said, nodding for Olga to join them. “It stands to reason that artifacts known to have belonged to the mother of the King of Gotham—”

Breathlessly, from behind them, Gertrud said, “This, I am liking the sound of. Queen Mother—”

Edward let go of Oswald and turned, poised on the restaurant’s threshold, lagging well behind.

“Don’t overstep your boundaries with me!” he said sharply. “In my position, _I_ —”

“Queen of Gotham, _oho_ ,” Gertrud parried. “I must tell Elijah to make you a silly hat!”

“She can’t hear you anymore,” said Oswald, yanking him the rest of the way outside. “Let it go.”

Recovering from a moment of severe disconnect, Edward realized that Oswald thought he was shouting at Sofia.

Behind him, as the door closed, he observed that Gertrud was gone.

“You’re right. She can’t,” Edward agreed. “But I _will_ find out how she did it, I promise you that.”


	9. Sealed Move

Olga let herself into the servants’ quarters with her spare key, no-nonsense, tray braced against her hip. Slamming the door behind her, she strode over to the chest of drawers—devoid of its lace runner, she noticed—and thunked the tray down on it.

In her tangled nest of covers, Sveta groaned and threw one aimless hand out toward the edge of the dresser. She hit her alarm clock, which was off to begin with, knocking it on the floor.

“Is not funny that you have removed the lace,” Olga scolded. “Made by Oswald’s mother.”

“I thought she was a cook and his _dad_ was the tailor,” Sveta yawned blearily, sitting up.

Olga examined the initials carved into the dresser’s surface, plainly exposed to light of day. She ran her fingers over them while Sveta transferred the tray into her lap. So, Vee had not lied about her eerie discovery.

“Guess they got up to hanky panky out here, huh,” said Sveta, shoveling oatmeal into her mouth.

“Remind me sometime to tell you ghost story,” Olga replied, tapping the carving, “about this room.”

“Got one of my own,” Sveta admitted, taking a sip of orange juice. “Weird shit happens upstairs.”

“Is everywhere in this house,” Olga agreed. “Good that today is your day off from the club.”

“Tomorrow, too,” Sveta reminded her, rubbing one eye with her flannel-cuff covered fist. “Monday and Tuesday are my Saturday and Sunday.”

“But you are on call here,” Olga said, “in case I must be called away for the other business.”

“You said yesterday went pretty well,” said Sveta, hopefully. “No mishaps. D’you think I could—”

“With crossbow?” Olga scoffed, turning to let herself out. “I think not. You must be careful.”

Ignoring the fact that she could hear Sveta’s childish parroting-back of her words, Olga marched back up the narrow walkway to the house. She slipped back into the kitchen, satisfied she hadn’t been gone _too_ long, and checked the tea she’d left to steep. Perfect.

She pieced together the rest of Oswald’s tray—oatmeal, mixed berries, egg, juice—and bore it out to where her employer waited at the head of the dining table. She cleared her throat.

“You must be strict about liquor stock in the club, monitor bottles,” Olga said, placing the items one by one before Oswald. “My niece has hangover. Again.”

“I’m given to understand bartending comes at a price,” said Oswald, too glibly for her liking.

“She can hold liquor like me, is how I know it is too much,” Olga snapped, spreading the napkin across his lap. “Too, _too_ much for us. _Vy ponimayete_?”

“Yes, I understand,” Oswald sighed, busy stirring sugar into his tea. “I’ll give her a slap on the wrist if there’s more missing than the sales logs show, is that what you want to hear?”

“Not accurate,” Olga replied, cracking Oswald’s egg for him. “Patrons will buy her drinks.”

“Then as long as the alcohol is paid for, and as long as she’s performing her job to standard,” said Oswald, with thin sarcasm, “there isn't much I can do. We’ve only been open three days.”

“I will monitor hangovers,” said Olga, stiffly, realizing what wasn’t right. “Why no Edward?”

“Ed is, as we speak, being a lump upstairs,” said Oswald, too fondly. “I told him I would send you up with a tray on my way out the door,” he went on, and dug into the cereal.

“Medication is…still working?” Olga ventured tentatively, pretending to scrub at the tabletop.

Oswald frowned, swallowing. He set down his spoon and reached for the teacup, taking a fortifying gulp, and looked up at her.

“While I understand that yesterday’s outbursts in the restaurant disturbed you, Ed is—”

“He talks with nothing,” Olga cut in fiercely, tossing her cloth down in spite. “Sees things.”

“To a degree,” said Oswald, too quietly, “Edward will always see things. We must be patient.”

“Patient until he is locked in another cage?” Olga asked. “You will let him do this with Fish?”

Oswald’s glance went from placating to piercing, and the saucer rattled as he replaced his cup.

“I will let Ed do whatever he wants,” said Oswald, emphatically, “as long as it’s helping him.”

Before Olga could think of a rebuttal, Oswald, already several bites into his egg, abruptly tugged his vibrating phone from his breast pocket. He hummed into it, listened, said _fine_ , and hung up. Tugging the napkin out of his lap, he wiped his mouth, put his phone away, and rose.

“Ivy has some concerns about the inventory that was just delivered,” he said. “I have to go.”

“I text Gabe to come now,” Olga sighed, tugging her phone out of her apron. “You finish tea.”

Once Oswald was gone, Olga cleared away his unfinished breakfast and set about fixing a new tray.

While Edward’s tea steeped, she sent him a text: _Be decent, I come up in 5_.

 _What has hands, but can’t clap?_ Edward replied within seconds, the riddle reassuring.

 _Clock on phone is not like this_ , Olga texted back. _Nice try. I come upstairs now._

When she got there, tray in tow, the bedroom door was ajar. She pushed it open warily, startled to see Edward on his feet and fully dressed before the triptych mirror. His suit shimmered.

As he turned, some trick of the light, filtered as it was through the antique window-panes, made his reflection seem to move a split-second behind. _That_ smile, the one his face in the mirror had worn, Olga did not like.

“Good morning,” Edward greeted her, coming over to sit on the edge of the bed. He helped her place the tray on the sheets beside him, and then indicated she should sit on the opposite side of it. “Bad form for me to share this, maybe, but it’ll be our secret. Have you eaten?”

“Yes,” Olga said, accepting the orange juice when he handed it to her. “But you have not.”

“Not to worry,” Edward said, popping a blackberry in his mouth. “I’ll pick a little, I promise.”

“Is not food you wish to pick,” said Olga, taking a perfunctory sip of the juice before setting it aside on the nightstand next to Edward’s pillbox. “I can tell. You take these?” she asked.

“Like clockwork,” Edward agreed with a grimace. “Although I have my doubts about it now.”

“What you are seeing,” Olga began, watching him choosily pick another berry. “You will tell?”

“Tell _me_ ,” Edward began, taking up the teacup as soon as he’d finished chewing and swallowing the strawberry, “were you always a freelancer? Or was your early work agency-sourced?”

“I work with agency when I first arrive,” Olga said, watching as he drained the tea. “The only classy one. I pass every test, and they accept.”

“Good, _very_ good,” said Edward, almost to himself. “Even though it was classy, there must’ve been a lot of gossip. What did the other wait-staff dish about?”

“Not the dishes, I promise you that,” Olga replied. “About who is bad to work for, and who is kind.”

Edward nodded in satisfaction, as if that had been precisely what he had been hoping to hear.

“Oswald’s father surely had a string of different help down the years,” he said. “Did you happen hear anybody talk about working here?”

Mind racing, Olga tried simultaneously to chase his obscured line of reasoning _and_ to remember the names of the two women she’d met. The Van Dahl house had been legendary.

“Maddalena did not last,” she said, recalling the slim, jittery blonde. “The wife was cruel.”

“Oswald never had anything positive to say about his stepmother,” Edward agreed darkly. “Anything else? Did anyone have opinions on Elijah?”

The memory slid neatly into place, as if Edward had known what lurked in Olga’s thoughts. She was certain she knew what part of her recollection of the next woman Edward would want.

“Helga, she was here long time,” Olga sniffed. “Name is bad imitation of mine. No backbone.”

“She had something to say about Elijah?” Edward prompted. “Do you remember what it was?”

“Too friendly at first, he makes her wonder what he wants,” Olga said, enjoying the novel experience of Edward hanging on her every word. “In kitchen all the time, teaching her to cook. As if she does not know how to do this already.”

“I see,” said Edward, slowly. “What kinds of things did he teach her to cook? Did she ever say?”

“Things a Finn like her does not know,” Olga continued, deciding to take pity. “Hungarian things.”

“Things he loved from when he was young,” Edward ventured, “from his family’s charming cook?”

“Is dangerous thing she has done, this Falcone woman,” Olga sighed. “Track down old servants, pay until she finds right one with right recipe. Many in agency would trade, sell—pass around to make variety for employers. Helga would take notes.”

“Then it wasn’t Gertrud’s own copy,” Edward said, mildly disappointed. “That’s lost after all.”

“Helga had good reputation with cooking, poor with memorization,” Olga replied. “No fool, but with her? Money talks. Maybe if she still had notebook, would sell whole thing for right price.”

“Or tear one page out of it,” Edward murmured, stuffing a few more blackberries in his mouth.

“I know you wish to find out how Falcone has done this, but is not worth chase,” Olga insisted.

Edward grinned predatorily, tugging out his phone. Five minutes of screen-tapping later, he handed it over to Olga. The address of her old agency was on the screen, along with a number.

“Call them and get her present whereabouts, tell them you _desperately_ need to talk to your old friend. Once you’ve done that, we could pay her a visit. Just you and me.”

Olga bit her lip, thumb hovering over the hyperlinked phone number. The thought of taking that kind of initiative behind Oswald’s back was pleasing, lack of firm orders be damned.

“Is a risk to take, Edward,” she said, “and all for what. Some nostalgic soup? Think about this.”

“It’s more of a stew, really, but—look, that’s not the _point_ ,” protested Edward, in frustration.

“The point is you make show of power,” Olga said slyly, “to send message. I understand this.”

“Then help me track Helga down,” Edward replied. “Today. A fun excursion, just you and me.”

“I will get gun,” said Olga, getting to her feet, “and drag lazy Sveta out of bed to clean kitchen.”


	10. Time Trouble

After an uneventful Monday of paperwork—rolling out the first wave of Edward’s brilliant licensing scheme, as well as briefing Zsasz on a job for his team—Oswald had spent the remainder of day listless in Edward’s absence. The occasional mental-health day, a concept at which Oswald might have scoffed even a year ago, seemed to do him good.

Until opening that evening, he loitered about the downstairs bar with Ivy to intercept the barrage of press visitors seeking commentary on a successful first weekend. Most of them wanted to know about the clientèle and decorating, so Oswald dismissed himself after giving a single statement in each instance—leaving the reporters to Ivy for the remainder of their tour.

Ivy had, Oswald realized, made an alarming number of competent aesthetic decisions during construction. Even the potted passionfruit plants with their poisonous-looking purple blooms had been a success, right down to patrons eager to return for limited-edition garnish once they bore fruit. Investing in the contrary, self-taught horticulturist’s future had already paid off.

“I told ya, Pengs,” said Ivy, beaming proudly as they watched the _Daily Grind_ entourage shuffle out with their digital cameras and notebooks full to the brim. “They’ll drink it up.”

“Yes,” Oswald agreed, carefully extracting her enthusiastic hand from his shoulder, but not without giving it a subdued, grateful squeeze. “While we’re on the subject, I’m curious—has Svetlana been overindulging on the job? Swigging off the top, anything like that?”

Ivy’s expression darkened, unable to mask her guilt. “Not that I, uh, know. Why d’you ask?”

“She’s been pretty hung-over since Saturday morning,” said Oswald, narrowing his eyes, “and Olga’s worried. She took me to task for it. I told her shots as tips are a peril of bartending.”

Tapping her nails against the counter, Ivy closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself.

“Okay, my fault,” she sighed. “She and Cat drank, like, a whole handle of whiskey on Friday.”

“Why should I believe that you, a known teetotaler,” Oswald scoffed, “are to blame for this?”

Ivy rubbed the side of her face and opened her eyes, nodding glumly.

“If I tell you why, you have to promise not to freak out,” she said.

“I’m all ears,” replied Oswald, with false cheer, desperately wishing Edward were there. He had a defter hand with the girls, and they were softer with him despite their occasional torment.

“We raided the GCPD after Sveta got off shift that night,” Ivy sighed. “I wanted to see if we could find anything on Fries and his whereabouts! It bugs me that we can’t find him!”

Oswald leaned heavily on the bar, reaching across for the nearest bottle. It was top-shelf vodka.

“Do I need to explain why that was reckless?” Oswald demanded, unscrewing the shot-measure lid. “And why someone with less—less _fondness_ for you—might fire you for it?”

Ivy’s eyes lit up. “Aw, Pengy! You’re fond of me? Get outta here! Do you really mean that?”

Reluctantly exercising a modicum of restraint, Oswald closed the bottle again and put it back.

“Miss Pepper,” he said, hoping to signal in the politest way possible that this was a warning, “how old does the entirely _legal_ ID that Edward had Ms. Mendel sort out say you are?”

“Twenty-one,” Ivy mumbled. “You fixed my birth certificate and everything, yeah, I _know_.”

“If this privilege is one you’d like to keep,” Oswald went on, “do me a favor and act your age.”

Head snapping up, Ivy glared at him with a measure of the stubborn fire that Oswald so admired.

“You got it, Goth Dad,” she said, and went about the business of restocking in Sveta’s absence.

By opening, Oswald had signed so many crime licenses that his left hand had begun to cramp.

A knock at the door around nine o’clock, above the club’s thrum downstairs, was not Edward.

“Press straggler to talk to ya, boss,” said Gabriel, poking his head in. “Your favorite and mine.”

Oswald rolled his eyes at the ceiling and clutched at the arms of his chair. “Send Ms. Vale in.”

Valerie didn’t look entirely pleased to be flanked by Caroline and Vee, who were back from Atlantic City. The driver and bodyguard looked well-rested, but strangely fragile.

“This is no way to treat a friend, Mayor Cobblepot,” she said as her escort left her at the desk.

“News flash,” Oswald snapped, leaning threateningly forward to test her mettle. “I resigned.”

“I know,” Valerie sighed, leaning to meet him halfway, palms braced on the mess of papers, “but I happen to believe you might’ve turned yourself around if you’d just stuck with it. I had hopes.”

Oswald blinked rapidly, incredulous, tempted to laugh in her face. “Are you being serious?”

Valerie nodded sadly, no hint of deception in her demeanor. “You weren’t there long, but you did more for this city’s morale than Aubrey James did in two consecutive terms.”

“We all know the illustrious former Judge Bamford is exactly where she belongs,” Oswald said.

“Bam-Bam’s got RBG levels of cachet, you can’t deny it,” Valerie agreed, “but you had flair.”

“Ed and I have an understanding with Chief-of-Staff Mendel,” Oswald said. “Everybody wins.”

Valerie nodded absently, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She lifted her palms from the desk and studied the scattered license-slips, lips parting in surprise.

“These things actually exist?” she breathed. “I heard some rumors. That’s, ah—why I came.”

“You mean you _didn’t_ come for the flashy décor and a free cocktail?” Oswald retorted.

Valerie raised an eyebrow, picking up one of the blank licenses. “Is that what all the press got?”

“What do you take me for?” Oswald asked, sitting back in his chair. “Of course not. Only you.”

Grinning at him, Valerie dropped the slip on his desk. “As a courtesy, I’ll let it slide till shit goes down. You and I both know it’ll only be a matter of _days_ before the GCPD gets hold of one of these. I only know about them because I’ve got some shady informants.”

“Ms. Vale, shady wouldn’t begin to cover it,” replied Oswald, delighted. “I think we both know you’re willing to play all sides against the middle to get what you want. Jim left you…jaded.”

Subtly, Valerie’s jaw tightened. “You said something about a cocktail. Walk me to the bar?”

“Let’s not bother with downstairs,” Oswald said, rising, leaving his cane propped against the desk. He offered to take Valerie’s arm, and she accepted. “The VIP’s right down this hall.”

At the sparsely-populated bar, Ivy turned from the patron she’d just served and smiled thinly.

“Special guest, boss?” she said, winking at Valerie. “What’ll it be—maybe Ivy’s Surprise?”

Oswald gave her as low-key a glare as he could manage and still come off the consummate host.

“The only surprise Ms. Vale will be having tonight is the pleasure of your service. Valerie?”

“Hey,” she said, offering Ivy a genuine smile. “Mix it up, Plant Lady. I’ve heard about you.”

“Yay!” Ivy said, sticking her tongue out at Oswald in a split-second of victory. “You’re gonna love…”

Oswald’s phone buzzed in his pocket, so he left the women to their chatter and stepped aside.

 _Bad faith, Oswald,_ said the text from an unknown number. _I treated you to lunch._

 _You did_ , Oswald replied, realizing to whom he was speaking, _but Ed coughed up a lung. That doesn’t speak highly of your taste in meeting venues._

 _Low of you to assume I’ll rise to petty intimidation_ , Sofia texted back. _That poor woman._

Oswald frowned at his phone, puzzling over the non-sequitur. _I’m afraid I don’t follow_.

_Surely you don’t begrudge me going to that trouble to track down your father’s former help so I could replicate your sainted mother’s recipe. I only meant it as an olive branch. We need to meet again soon and patch this quickly._

“Hey, boss, what’s wrong?” Ivy called from the bar. “You look kinda like somebody died.”

Marching back to the counter, Oswald ignored Valerie’s raised eyebrows and pointed at Ivy.

“Have you heard from Edward at all today, I mean _at all_?” he asked, raw panic rising.

“Nope, you said he was at home for R-and-R,” said Ivy, adding a sprig of mint to Valerie’s glass.

Tapping the side of his phone, Oswald couldn’t decide whether to leave instantly or make a call.

“Thank you, Miss Pepper,” he said distractedly, starting back in the direction of his office.

Gabriel, Caroline, and Vee were still stationed outside the double doors, engaged in idle talk.

“We need to head to the house, and we need to go now!” he snapped. “I’m leaving early.”

“Uh oh,” Caroline said, chewing her lip, and then nodded. “We got Code Green or some shit?”

Vee punched her in the arm. “We weren’t gonna say that in front of— _ow_ ,” she hissed as Caroline punched back. “You got it, boss. Cee’s at the wheel, and we’ve got your back.”

“Thought Olga and the niece were there to keep tabs,” Gabriel said, leading them to the elevator.

“That’s no good if half the help’s developed a taste for action,” Caroline said under her breath.

“Then what we have,” muttered Oswald, spiraling into unsettled dread, “is an assisted relapse.”


	11. Critical Position

Fish arrived at the Van Dahl Estate just before dusk, pleased with the security detail outside. It meant that Edward was definitely home. The presence of Olga’s car was likewise telling.

One of Fish’s staff had caught wind of the severed hands bound to a cookbook left on Sofia Falcone’s doorstep, and it didn’t take a genius to decipher the message. The threat was gutsy, had literary flair, and Oswald should have done it himself.

In her estimation, Edward was proving by degrees that he wasn’t the loose cannon he’d once been. The trick was convincing him to keep Oswald better informed of his tactical decisions.

Commanding her retinue to remain outside, Fish went for the knocker instead of the doorbell.

Olga opened the door a full minute later, peering sullenly out at her. “You have appointment?”

“With Mr. Nygma, very much so,” Fish said, offering a text-exchange on her phone as proof.

“He is in good mood today, will be happy to see you,” Olga assented, escorting Fish inside.

Unusual, to find Edward in the smaller sitting room with the fireplace instead of in his office.

“If you’re playing yourself,” Fish said, sliding into the empty armchair across the chess-table from him, “then I suggest you put the next move on hold. We need to discuss _ours_.”

“Ah, yes, the Narrows,” Edward said cheerfully, plucking out his cufflinks. In nothing but shirtsleeves and waistcoat, he looked casual and almost harmless. “What’s the plan?”

“I’m here to hammer that out, seeing as we’re in charge,” Fish reminded him, adjusting her stole.

Edward rose and went over to the serving cart, where he set his cufflinks and took up one of the cut-glass decanters. He waved it at Fish enticingly, and then picked up another.

“Can I tempt you with sherry or Sauternes?” he asked. “We need to finish this white Bordeaux fast.”

“Sit your ass down,” Fish said impatiently, startling Edward, although he dallied long enough to pour himself a glass of the white. “Ivy and the girls dug up something in Fries’s GCPD file. His trail went cold in Canada several months ago. Oswald’s failed attempts to make contact suggest that he might’ve received the package—that high-tech suit—and that’s why he’s been able to stay on the move.”

“Wait, _you_ were behind their precinct raid?” Edward asked, intrigued, glass poised against his lower lip. “I’d keep that from Oswald if I were you.”

“No, it was on Ivy’s initiative,” Fish replied. “I only know because she came to me with the nitty-gritty and suggested it might be useful to our task-force. Tell Oswald to keep an eye on that one. Childish frivolity aside, she’s lieutenant material.”

“He’s had an eye on her since the day they first met. He has an…innate sense for potential.”

“I guess you’ve earned the right to some self-flattery. But I wouldn’t push it if I were you.”

“Of course not,” Edward demurred after a swig of Sauternes. “That would be in poor taste.”

Fish placed her hands on chessboard, nails splayed. “I have some news that you won’t like.”

“It doesn’t matter whether I like it or not,” Edward parried. “Oswald’s opinion trumps mine.”

“Your past and your personal involvement with the subject matter more,” Fish insisted, tapping one of Edward’s black pawns on the head. “Back from when you were a bitty forensics tech.”

Edward’s expression clouded, but another terse sip of wine dispelled all intimations of doubt.

“It has to do with this Doc, doesn’t it,” he said thinly, “and the one ghost I most regret making.”

Nodding slowly, Fish moved the pawn. “The much-changed Lee Thompkins is our woman.”

Edward didn’t blink, but the swiftness with which his eyes tracked over the board betrayed him.

“That’s unfortunate,” he muttered, “seeing as she’ll slap me given half a chance. The invasion of her territory would merit a blow far more severe.”

“We mustn’t see this as an invasion, Edward,” Fish replied calmly. “We’re going as emissaries.”

“We’re going to suss them out and then secure their help in tracking down Strange and Valeska,” Edward corrected. “You’re right. We might as well add Fries to our stack of proposals.”

“I like that I never have to connect the dots for you,” said Fish, smiling. “How ’bout that wine?”

They had scarcely clinked glasses when a ruckus in the entryway heralded Oswald’s arrival.

“D’you wanna handle this,” Fish asked, eyebrows raised, “or does he need some mothering?”

“I’d love to pass the buck,” Edward sighed, setting down his glass as he rose, “but this is mine.”

Seething, Oswald stormed into the sitting room with Gabriel, Vee, and Caroline hot on his heels.

“What did we agree on, Ed,” he said with concern-contained fury, “in matters of diplomacy?”

“You trust me to devise and carry out threats as needed,” Edward replied coolly. “Just like when you were in office. I see little difference between that and slapping Sofia’s wrists.”

“Helga Heikkinen,” Oswald said, making for the serving cart, his gait strained. “Ring a bell?”

“Former household staff of your father’s, perhaps attributable to Grace,” Edward replied, quick to assist him. “She sold your mother’s recipe to Sofia. I promised during a public encounter that I wouldn’t let it slide, and you didn’t tell me to let it drop. That counts as permission.”

Fish met Oswald’s eyes as he swilled the glass of Sauternes that Edward had just handed to him.

“You need to keep in mind that your husband’s vows toward enemies count as much as yours.”

Trapped, Oswald looked from Fish to Edward, and then back to Fish. “I’m outvoted, then?”

“Outvoted, no,” Edward said, refilling his own glass to the brim. “Offered counsel, yes.”

Oswald took an emphatic swallow of wine, nodding with vicious sarcasm. “Oh, I see how it is.”

“Does my experience count for nothing?” Fish challenged. “Edward did what you should have.”

“Thanks to your nasty little surprise,” Oswald said, ignoring her in favor of Edward, “Sofia is requesting another meeting. Tomorrow, while you’re likely to be scouting the Narrows!”

“You would’ve needed to meet again anyway,” Edward said, setting a hand on Oswald’s arm.

In the background, Gabriel made a noise that suggested he was tired of what he was hearing.

“Jesus, be quiet,” Vee hissed under her breath, taking a hard elbow from Caroline in the process.

Oswald turned to stare at his security detail, waving at them impatiently. “You three. _Out_.”

Fish gave Edward a suggestive look, tilting her chin toward Oswald. She subtly pursed her lips.

Edward set down his glass, reaching as his husband turned back to him. “Oswald,” he cajoled.

Eyes half-closed in weary surrender, Oswald drained the remainder of his glass and set it aside.

“Ed,” he said quietly, taking hold of Edward’s hands. “I would’ve preferred you to ask first.”

Assured that Edward had gotten her message, Fish rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the chessboard as kissing entered the reconciliation. If Oswald were so easily manipulated by anyone else on earth, his empire would be in jeopardy. And it almost _had_ been.

“Tomorrow, Edward,” she said, backtracking the black pawn in satisfaction. “I’ll pick you up.”


End file.
